


That deathless death: Denial and isolation

by MyLadyDay



Series: Ara Pacis: The five stages of grief [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Ballet, Gen, Implied Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pre-Relationship, ballet dancer ace, ballet dancer marco, former dancer marco, mentions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-07 11:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18620137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLadyDay/pseuds/MyLadyDay
Summary: denial/dɪˈnʌɪ(ə)l/nounthe action of denying something.It was easier to cope now that he could get up and walk and pretend he wasn't limping, easier to forget the days and weeks at the hospital where he couldn't hide from all the pity. They were all undeniably wrong to pity him and he was about to prove that so the nightmares mattered little.





	That deathless death: Denial and isolation

**Author's Note:**

> This was my entry for the OPBB! Thank you Tsu for the awesome art <3 (art to be linked soon when i'm not sleep deprived cause i fucking didn't realize this was saved as a draft until now)

At first, there was nothing but the darkness around him, kept at bay by the circle of bright light at the centre of which he stood. It was a heavy darkness, brimming with anticipation and awe, hiding countless eyes trained on him alone. They were hidden, but he felt every gaze on his skin. The music was just an afterthought, a barely remembered memory at the edge of his mind, reaching his ears distorted through the darkness like it's treading water just to get to him.

He moved at what he knew was his cue, the tips of his toes bearing his weight for a moment, suspended in the spotlight, surrounded by the weight of a bated breath before the music crashed and the weight was lifted.

With a feather-light grace, he leapt into the air, smug at the sound of a collective gasp from the darkness. He soared across the stage, light, free, weighted by nothing of consequence. He mattered here, on this stage, in front of all those eyes. He was something, someone worthy of awe, worthy of worship.

He was drunk with it, with the power of all that worship closing in on him with the darkness. As his joy grew, the circle of his spotlight diminished, becoming smaller and leaving him with less and less space to move. But he moved nonetheless, not allowing the darkness to subdue him, to keep him from what he loved.

The music grew more distorted with every move he made, with every breath he took on that stage. It was turning into something he no longer recognized, something monstrous that replaced the elation in his chest with an undeniable panic. He'd never been claustrophobic, never afraid of the dark, and yet here he was, with anxiousness spreading from his core, turning his limbs into lead.

But the dancing never stopped; it would take more than that to make him stop and bring him to his knees.

The darkness was unrelenting though, caring very little of his thoughts and his determination, his fear and panic. It continued to consume slowly, yet unbelievably fast, taking with it the rest of his spotlight.

The loss of it was a stab in the back and a sharp pain in his knee, before the stage fell out beneath him. He remained suspended in the air for a painful moment longer, just enough to realize his inevitable fall.

He was falling then, helpless in every way as the light above him faded and disappeared, leaving him alone in the dark with his own fears and panic.

There was nothing to hold on to, nothing that could stop his descent. Only whispers he could barely make out, hiding in the dark, taunting him with something like hope.

_Poor Marco .... dance again ..... not looking good .... be okay ... won't hurt forever .... see you on stage ... sorry .._

Words mingling together, making little sense separately, but painting a picture too terrifying for him to imagine. The pity was clinging to him like a weight, it was pulling him down faster and faster, making his chest hurt with how fast he was breathing. His attempts to calm down were pointless, impossible with the nothingness around him that only served to make the pain worse, to remind him that there was always an end of even the longest fall and he couldn't, wouldn't, face his own end.

Marco woke with a flinch and a gasp, terrified of the moment his fall would come to an end and he would hit the ground. His chest was heaving with each painful breath of cold air as he tried to make sense of the panic that continued to wash over him. The dream was already fading away into the dim morning light. There were still traces of it in his mind, a lingering sense of fear and melancholy he couldn't quite place or explain, yet it felt like it made sense. Like it was a justified feeling he couldn't rid himself of.

Every breath he took chased the memory further and further away until he was just confused and cold, covered in sweat that grew colder with every passing moment.

The heat must have been out again, making Marco painfully aware how soaked through his shirt and sheets were, serving only to annoy him and drive the last wisps of his dream into oblivion. Unable to enjoy the warmth and comfort of his bed, he untangled his legs from the tangle of his duvet and stood, shedding the shirt with little effort and a lot of discomfort.

The sharp pain in his knee almost made him flinch until he shifted his weight, but he couldn't allow that. There was no one there to see him or his moment of weakness, and yet it mattered to him that he remained strong even just for his own sake.

Because he wasn't weak, he was completely fine and this was just a small setback, a bump in the road he was nearly over.

But the pain was easily forgotten in the face of the winter air cooling all the sweat still covering him. Marco hurried to the thermostat, as fast as he could without limping, to turn the heat on. This was easy, this morning routine that he did without a second thought, that set everything right with its familiarity.

It was easier to cope now that he could get up and walk and pretend he wasn't limping, easier to forget the days and weeks at the hospital where he couldn't hide from all the pity. They were all undeniably wrong to pity him and he was about to prove that so the nightmares mattered little.

Each morning was met with a renewed sense of determination to prove everyone wrong; the doctors, the nurses, his physical therapist, his family. Himself, in the darkest hours when doubt overwhelmed the optimism.

The radiators made that godawful clanging sound as soon as he turned up the heat as yet another reminder that he was awake and this was part of the routine.

Still cold and uncomfortable, Marco made his way to the bathroom to seek other sources of warmth while the radiators warmed up. The laundry basket was already full of clothes when he dumped his soaked shirt on top of it, overflowing with shirts that all ended up there for the exact same reason.

Perhaps a break in the routine to finally do some laundry would be good for him. He'd ignored the simple tasks and chores longer than was probably necessary, painfully unfamiliar with being at home the whole day. What used to simply be a place to sleep between rehearsals now felt like a prison of sorts, where he sat and did little beyond the exercises his physical therapist recommended.

And even those were painful in a way that had nothing to do with his knee, but rather a constant reminder that he'd failed himself more profoundly than anyone else has failed him before.

The thought lingered as he stepped into the shower, under the blissfully warm spray of water while his cold sweaty clothes lay forgotten on the bathroom floor. The water warmed him quickly, soothing the ache that was a constant as of late. He was unable to pinpoint where it began, where it ended or why it was there, but he'd almost made peace with its existence.

It never seemed to go away, but moments like these helped dull he sensation. Moments when the cold was chased away by something as trivial as a warm shower on a gray winter morning.

Once he was in there, Marco was reluctant to get out. Things were simple there, surrounded by warm steam and the rhythmic patter of water against the tiles and his shoulders. It was a soothing sound that broke the unbearable silence of his apartment, more comforting than the sound of his uneven gait against the wooden floors or the melody of discomfort he couldn't fight while going through his morning exercises.

So easy not to think and dwell on anything but the comfort of his own loneliness. That, if nothing else, was the same as before; the quiet existence in the apartment that was rarely interrupted by the sound of someone else's voice.

But as reluctant as he'd been to leave, Marco couldn't stay in the shower forever. His knee, a traitor these days, was already tingling with discomfort that he'd promised he wouldn't ignore.

Not this time, not again. He'd learned from his mistakes and this wasn't one to repeat.

So he stepped out of the shower moments later, noting he'd been in there long enough for the heating to kick in. The bathroom was almost pleasantly warm, a fact he was grateful for given that he'd forgotten to take clean clothes with him. He toweled off quickly, hurrying a bit so he could still shave before leaving the bathroom altogether.

That too was part of his routine, a part that reminded him of the 'before the injury' part of his existence that he so desperately wanted to return to. He was barely leaving the apartment these days, but the thought of not following his morning routine almost made him recoil. As if not shaving one morning would change the entirety of who he is.

Like most things, this too was ridiculous when he gave it more thought, but ultimately it was just something that remained unchanged in the face of everything that went wrong recently. Rubbing a hand over the freshly smooth skin of his jaw provided some sort of comfort at least, and he was invested in finding as much of that as possible while he could.

-0-

Even with the heating on, it wasn't warm enough to walk around the apartment completely naked and still warm from the shower, but he hardly had a choice. He moved slowly, careful not to agitate his knee too much, no matter how cold he was. It wasn't that far anyway, the distance seeming much shorter now that he limped only on occasion.

Not quite how it should have been, but it was progress. Briefly, the thought of how agonizingly slow that progress was passed through his mind, but he shook it off immediately, unwilling to lose his optimism.

The doctor's words came back to him as he got dressed, the assurance that he would heal well and that the chance of dancing again existed, but they'd have to see for sure somewhere down the line of recovery. Marco wasn't stupid; he could read between the lines and guess the things his doctor didn't want to mention just yet.

It was something he remembered each morning, and something he made himself work around each day. He would get back to dance one way or another, he would not give up on his dream because of a small injury like this.

With that in mind, Marco got dressed, all the while staring at the framed poster next to the bed. It was like a beacon of hope, a reminder of how far he'd come. The Nutcracker had been his first chance to make a name for himself, and he'd had the poster framed after opening night when he'd set foot on a stage that big for the first time.

Looking at it each morning was just a reminder of how far he'd come, and how hard he'd worked since then.

Reminded of all the hard work he'd put into his career, he returned to the living room and started with the simple stretching exercises he was taught by his therapist. They were nothing like what he was used to doing, and he was reminded every morning that there was so much work waiting for him to get back in shape after this long break. This was the only thing keeping him sane, this simple way of doing at least something to still move and practice instead of just sitting around, waiting for everything to heal.

Despite the way he'd woken up, Marco could honestly say he was feeling hopeful for once, for the day ahead and the future, if he wanted to allow himself to think further ahead. And he did allow it for once, because of the ease the exercises came to him with, because the discomfort was lessening and because he wanted to believe that spending his entire life working towards a single goal hadn't been completely in vain.

He'd barely broken a sweat and it only served to make him more optimistic, more hopeful about the outcome of this unfortunate thing.

Marco was overcome with a sudden hope that he was about to come out of this whole and stronger than he’d been before. The laugh he’d let out sounded perhaps a bit manic, but he couldn’t have cared even if he tried.

Still sat on the floor of his living room, Marco laughed again, unable to stop the relief and unexpected hope. He’d had hope for a while already, but this was something new, something intoxicating and strong enough that Marco wanted to share the feeling.

For the first time in a while, he reached for his phone. He’d left it on the desk in the living room, charging it when necessary, but otherwise completely ignoring its existence ever since he’d returned from the hospital. It rang more often than not, annoying enough to make him turn the sound off because he couldn’t bring himself to talk to anyone but his doctor if absolutely necessary.  

But not anymore. The phone was in his hand, only dimming his mood a bit when he saw the number displayed next to the missed calls notification. A much higher number than he’d expected, but not high enough to make him regret the lack of contact he’d upheld.

They must have understood how he’d been feeling, Marco was trying to reason with himself, because no one stopped by to visit since he broke off contact with everyone.

Seeing all those calls and messages made him realize he’d missed so much and everyone was probably worried about him while he hid at home, doing absolutely nothing other than what was necessary to live. It was a spur of the moment decision, one that surprised him, but once it materialized in his thoughts, he was unable to change his mind.

-0-

The moment he'd started regretting his decision in earnest was the second the cold empty street opened into the wide square leading to the theatre house. At this point it had been months since he'd been there, much longer still since the last time he'd actually stopped and took it all in.

The wide square with the bronze fountain in the middle, covered with uneven piles of snow and surrounded by ice. The imposing building of the National Theatre just beyond the fountain, a marvel of 19th century architecture.

Marco couldn't even remember the last time he'd looked at it and thought anything other than 'home', but as much as he tried, it wasn't a word that felt right at the moment. It was more of an embodiment of fear as he stood on that sidewalk, with flakes of snow touching his face like pinpricks of ice, staring ahead and wondering if he should have just left.

That building across the square was full of people he cared for, people who cared for him. The only family he still had left.

And they were all people he did his very best to avoid from the moment he was released from the hospital and was given a chance to hide from their concerned and sad looks. Those looks hurt almost as much as his knee did, burning in a way he wasn't used to, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

As if the whole situation wasn't bad enough on its own, it also made him realize how little it took to make him beyond helpless and powerless. To say he didn't appreciate the feeling would have been a gross understatement.

But he wasn't a coward and he wasn't afraid of facing his fears, even if they wore the faces of people he loved most in this world, so it only took him a couple of moments longer before he started walking again. Slower and more careful than he was used to, still prone to limping and afraid of slipping on the patches of ice that were littered across the square.

The only comfort was available in the fact that no one would see his cautious steps and very slow walk towards the theatre. No one was ever around that early in the morning, something Marco always enjoyed about his walks to rehearsals each day. The morning was always his favorite part of the day, so quiet and serene even in a city that big. The only time that allowed some serenity before the bustle and noise started, before everyone hurried to work and crowded the streets.

He made his way towards the back of the theatre building slowly, going for the stage door the employees and dancers used instead of the grand front doors. It was better that way, allowing him to avoid running into anyone for as long as possible. It was more due to nervousness as he entered the building, than fear of seeing painful amounts of pity directed at him.

But despite being away for a while, he knew everything there was to know about the building itself and the people who spent their days in this space. No one lingered in the public areas of the main theater building this early in the morning except for a couple of security guards and cleaning staff.

The stage crew shouldn't be in for a few hours more, but Marco was certain Izou was somewhere nearby already to supervise early morning rehearsals on stage for the play. Marco lost track of which play was running in the theatre at that point in the season, but it didn't really matter to him anyway; the actors weren't a part of the theatre and most likely wouldn't even know him.

The dancers were most likely in the dressing rooms in the ballet building, in various states of readiness for the morning exercises with the ballet master. What he wouldn't give to be one of them.

Instead he walked through the empty warm corridors behind the stage and down into the tunnel that connected the two buildings and allowed the dancers to move between them unseen. He'd never given that tunnel much thought before, he was faced with a long passage with no possible way to avoid anyone should they decide to go to the main building in that exact moment.

That was cause for some nervousness at least, because he wasn't ready, he was far from ready to have to talk to someone and once again he was overwhelmed with regret about his decision to be there. He was so far from ready because he still had a while to recover and dance again.

He was so far from ready to face his family and their reaction to him after so long.

Marco hadn't allowed himself to think about how much he missed them until that moment. He hadn't allowed himself to give into how much he wanted them around because he couldn't stand the way they'd look at him. They tried, God how they tried to hide their sadness, but Marco could see it crystal clear every time.

They'd all seen too many dancers retire far too young for reasons just like this and Marco could tell they all expected the same for him.

But he wasn't ready to accept that as an option and hiding from the rest of them was easier than trying to convince anyone of this. All his strength and focus were directed at recovery and the will to return to the stage.

He'd passed that stage without a second thought though, for fear he might forget all his hopes and dwell on the fear he had been avoiding vocalizing since the first time he'd been alone with his thoughts in the hospital.

Marco could have laughed at how many things he'd been avoiding lately, like a petulant child that believed a problem would just go away if he ignored it long enough.

Considering his own ridiculous childishness was enough to get him through the tunnel without having to dwell on how to handle a hypothetical meeting with any of the people he knew and cared about. He hadn't realized until then that he'd chosen the perfect time to visit and still avoid talking to anyone, considering they'd all be busy with their morning exercises.

That actually made him laugh a little, feeling as if he'd become a hermit capable of organizing every venture outside of his home around how best to avoid as many people as possible. He may not have realized it earlier, but clearly his accidental endeavor was a success as he came out of the tunnel and into the empty corridor that housed all of the dressing rooms.

Out of habit, he walked down the corridor towards the door that still had his name. Just seeing that lifted a weight off his shoulders, showing him that he hadn't been tossed aside and replaced. It hurt, thinking of his family as capable of doing that, but they weren't just a family either and his absence would do nothing to stop the preparations for another season.

He wouldn't want that to happen either, aware they all worked hard to get to that point just like he had.

The black and white print of his name stuck to the door held his attention for a moment longer before he tried the door knob and found it unlocked. It looked exactly like he'd left it, at first glance. He hadn't been back since the day his knee gave out and Thatch grabbed his clothes on their way to the emergency room. Somehow, Marco hadn't expected the memory to hit him quite this hard.

But for a moment, he was back on stage, unable to stand up. He remembered the moment it happened with unbelievable clarity. The moment that was tinted with such an overwhelming sense of confusion as he tried to process his sudden inability to perform such a simple act as getting up after falling down.

He scoffed as he remembered how it all became clear to him because of the same expression on every single face around him. For the briefest of seconds, they all looked at him almost as if he'd died.

In reality, it was only a part of him that remained in danger. Only a part, he thought with another scoff. The biggest part that defined who he was. Who he’d been for so long, and honestly, he’d never thought he’d have to reinvent himself. Cockiness like that was dangerous, stupid even, but it had been working for him.

Until he injured his ACL that is, and briefly he’d asked himself how that could have happened to him, but decided against dwelling on it.

For fear of losing himself in his thoughts of what if and why me, Marco left his dressing room, closing the door as if no one had been there, before finding his way to the stairs. The ballet hall was on the first floor of the building above him, but the viewer balcony was on the floor above and given the lack of elevators in the building, Marco had his second bout of regrets about this decision to visit.

He was unsure if he had the capability to describe his very intense dislike for climbing stairs.

They were a challenge though. Exercise too, if he'd wanted to go that far and be an optimist all the way for once. All that optimism almost left him on the way up, with how slow his climb was and how much effort it took. It was obvious to him that he wasn't as well as he'd thought he was all of an hour earlier, but he didn't have it in him to give up.

He climbed the stairs quietly, knowing full well how sound traveled in that building and how annoying it was to hear people stomping around in the middle of practice. The ballet master had his exercises with the group first thing in the morning, working on their form, before he'd take his leave, allowing the dancers to continue to choreography rehearsals and whatever else followed.

The mornings were a special part of the day for all of them, and Marco refused to interrupt that with his pathetically loud panting and the effort it took to climb to the first floor. Still, there was a sense of accomplishment to be had once he'd made it to his goal.  

The ballet hall was a big room with a very high ceiling made of frosted glass panes that let in as much light as possible. It spanned across two floors of the ballet building, with the dancers down on the first floor and a small viewing gallery on the second floor. The viewing gallery was a very nice way of saying 'a really tiny balcony someone decided to make along the inside wall'.

It could fit two people, three at most at a time. That was enough though, given that outsiders rarely got the chance to come in and watch this part, or any, of dance rehearsals. The ballet building didn't even have any entrances in itself, just the tunnel from the theatre that mostly sounded very medieval to people, but in reality, it was just a well lit and really wide underground passage covered in cream tiles.

The entire building had a very soothing atmosphere to it, and Marco couldn't help but let that calm wash over him as he caught his breath in front of the viewing gallery door. He could already hear the music from inside, fairly loud, and yet not loud enough to drown out the noise the stage crew tended to make in the corridors during rehearsals at least twice a week.

He was pretty sure they'd been doing that on purpose most of the time.

Unexpectedly, staring at the door while trying to breathe like a person who was in good shape was making Marco nervous again. Could he open the door without drawing everyone's attention to him? As much as he'd wanted to see everyone, he wasn't quite ready to have all that attention solely on himself. The last time that'd happened was before the hospital, so not really the best of memories.

But he steeled himself, unwilling to let his bout of courage and optimism go just yet.

The music was much louder once he opened the door and it was like coming home after a long absence. Marco waited in the doorway a moment, just enjoying the music and the light washing over the room. Just being there made him itch with the need to move, to dance, to let go, and knowing he couldn't felt like an injustice.

Still, he stepped in and closed the door behind him as quietly as possible, unwilling to shatter the mood of an early morning dance.

He'd moved only enough to see over the banister and take it all in, all the faces he'd missed more than he'd allowed himself to admit. They way each of them moved was unique and beautiful and almost unbearably painful to watch as on outside. Because he was an outsider in that moment, observing them silently from the gallery instead of being down there with them, in his usual spot near the windows, just in front of the master.

His gaze drifted over to that spot almost out of habit, curious to see if they'd all just arranged themselves around the empty spot in their ranks or if they'd moved closer to forget one of them was missing.

Instead, his eyes found an unfamiliar form. Unfamiliar only for long enough to make him recoil at the fact there was someone in his place and no one seemed surprised by it, no one showed any sign that this wasn't right.

The longer he looked, the more obvious it became that he knew that man so well. His hair tied at the top of his head in a loose bun and the splatter of freckles on his neck and his arms and his painfully beautiful face, scrunched up in concentration. All the tattoos on his shoulders and arms, their number seemingly greater than last time Marco had the chance to see them. It'd been so long since the last time Marco had seen Ace, but it was impossible not to recognize him.

From memory alone, Marco could trace the freckles down his spine and over his shoulder blades, across his ribs and further down across every possible inch of skin. They were everywhere, impossibly numerous and a joy to try and count until something better to do came along.

Remembering Ace's laugh at his attempts to count them all was like a hole in Marco's chest as he watched Ace go through the forms in his spot, looking completely at home.

Marco couldn't explain why it never occurred to him that he would be replaced. It had probably happened shortly after his injury and it made sense, it made absolute sense, and Marco didn't know how to vocalize why it hurt so much. Was it because there was a replacement or because it had to be Ace of all people?

He could still remember the first time he'd heard of Ace back when he'd made the headlines as a ballet prodigy. And later when he made the headlines for being arrested. He could remember the first time they'd met and Marco could admit how much he admired Ace for so long. And how Ace had returned the sentiment immediately after.

He could remember the first time they fell into bed together, and almost every other time since.

Marco hadn't even known Ace was in town and it was surely the first time they were in the same city without meeting for drinks and a long night in a hotel room spent together before parting ways again. Briefly, he wondered if one of those endless missed calls was from Ace, but Marco couldn't bring himself to check, as transfixed as he still was.

He hadn’t even known Ace was dancing again in this capacity, after how he’d quit last time.

Their relationship had never been a romantic one, but this still felt like a betrayal to Marco, that someone he'd known so long (and so intimately) would take his place. At the same time, he was pleased deep down that they'd brought in the very best to dance in his place.

But worse than this supposed betrayal was the fact that there was no place for him to return, not for this season at the very least. Possibly ever, if Ace did well, and Marco would never doubt Ace's skill and dedication.

With that thought he couldn't look at Ace anymore, who was focused on the exercises Ed was leading and completely oblivious to the attention directed at him. Admirable, how he lost himself when dancing, paying little attention to anything else when the music played and he was expected to dance. Marco looked across the room again, still happy to see them all, but now that happiness was dulled by the feeling of not belonging anymore.

He froze in his spot when his eyes met Thatch's on the other side of the room. The look on his face was so genuine and more shocked than full of pity, which was the only reason why Marco managed a small smile before backing away towards the door. The comfort of the music and the ballet hall was gone, bleeding out with every note and every move made beneath the viewer gallery, and Marco no longer felt at home.

It was certainly a feeling he couldn’t process while Thatch looked at him like that.

Thatch's eyes followed him until he backed out through the door and out of sight, hoping that no one else noticed. It felt humiliating in a way, that someone saw him in this moment of realization that this wasn’t his place anymore. He retraced his steps from there, with nothing but the thought of getting out without being seen on his mind.

-0-

The gallery in the theatre was probably his favorite part of the entire place, not counting the stage. He'd never understood why those seats were always cheaper than the seats in front of the stage because they showed a unique perspective of the stage. It was also very easy to hide up there when the place was empty because no one tended to look up.

He'd been so close to the exit, so close to escaping with only Thatch being aware of his visit. So damn close, and then he'd had to be weak and stay.

There was music playing on the stage, something by Creedence Clearwater Revival, and Marco knew it could only be Izou doing something behind the scenes. It was so unlike the music playing for the dancers in the other building, that some of the dread clinging to him melted away. He couldn't resist going up into the gallery just to take it all in, hoping it wouldn't be for the last time, but knowing he probably wouldn't want to return if he couldn't dance.

The view was stunning and the acoustics were breathtaking, so Marco stayed in his seat. He stayed through several songs, each of them bringing a smile to his face because it was a break from the silence he'd gotten used to at home. He stayed when the music stopped and the theatre was silent for a few moments before a small group walked in. Izou was with them, and thanks to the acoustics Marco could hear what they were speaking about.

The sudden company didn't alarm him, he was far out of sight up there, and he sincerely doubted a bunch of students would be interested in him. He stayed to listen to Izou talk about the history of the place and a bit about what goes on behind the stage during a play.

That was perhaps even more soothing than the music; Marco hadn't even realized how much he missed the sound of his voice until he'd heard Izou tell the bored looking students about the large crystal chandelier that was hanging above the seats. It didn't occur to him that the small group may look up at the chandelier and spot him sitting up there alone, not until it actually happened and Izou noticed him as well.

Izou didn't look shocked to see him. It was hard to recognize the emotion on his face from that far away, but Marco was pretty sure it wasn't shock.

No one else paid attention to him, and the group moved on soon enough, Izou going with them without so much as a glance towards Marco. He wasn't optimistic enough to think that would be the end of it, but the instinct to run away was gone and Marco simply remained in his seat, enjoying the peace for a bit longer.

"I was expecting you last week," Izou said from behind him not even ten minutes later.

"I guess you have to be wrong sometimes, too," Marco told him with a smile that he didn't even have to force.

He was happy Izou returned the smile without any awkwardness. Along with the pity and sadness, Marco was sick of the way everyone seemed to tiptoe around him.

"I guess," Izou said, sitting down next to Marco. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

Marco smiled again, leaning further into the plush chair and tipping his head back.

"I'm not sure why I came," Marco admitted after a few beats of silence, as always prompted to spill whatever was bothering him simply because Izou didn't ask.

"Did you go over to the ballet hall?" Izou asked, but Marco was pretty sure the answer was clear so he just hummed in reply.

"Thatch wanted to be the one to tell you," Izou said. "About Ace. You didn't answer the phone."

He said it without accusation, almost as if he understood. Marco wondered how many calls were from him.

"How long has it been?" Marco asked.

"A couple of weeks," Izou told him. "I'm guessing you didn't see the video Ace filmed while you were being a hermit."

Marco finally looked at him then, oddly curious, clearly doing something funny with his face because Izou laughed at him.

"Just google him when you get home," Izou told him, eyes still amused.

"Did I miss anything else?" Marco asked with some trepidation.

"Not really," Izou told him. "We were worried about you. Did you talk to anyone while you were in the other building?"

"No," he replied, somewhat ashamed of being such a coward. "I didn't want to interrupt practice."

"They wouldn't have minded," Izou said, but it didn't sound like he would have pressed the topic. He didn’t point out that Marco knew this as a fact either.

But even so, Marco was slowly growing weary of talking, slowly beginning to long for the solitude of his home where he could take everything in. This place made it hard to focus, hard to think about anything other than being on stage then being unable to be on stage. Hard to think about anything other than Ace dancing in his shoes.

"Thatch saw me," Marco said, tipping his head back again until it rested against the backrest and he could see nothing but the fresco above the chandelier.

"You should probably go then," Izou said, "if you don't want to talk to him. They're almost done and he'll know where to find you."

Izou was right as usual, and Marco was glad they ran into each other. He missed talking to Izou and he hadn't even realized how much until then.

Marco tilted his head to the side, just in time to watch Izou stand up.

"Answer the phone next time," Izou told him. "We all miss you."

With that he was making his way through the seats and towards the stairs, disappearing somewhere in the back without waiting for a goodbye from Marco.

Marco was left with only himself for company and a view he knew he couldn’t tire of. Talking to Izou for just a few minutes was almost too much for him, already used to being alone. Spending his life surrounded by other dancers, usually in small quarters, spending days upon days in rehearsals with so many other, getting used to being all alone was an unexpected symptom of his injury.

In that moment, he’d realized that it felt right for a very simple reason; perhaps he’d gotten so used to being alone because deep down, he’d known all along that there was no going back to they way things were before.

-0-

Leaving the theatre was easy after talking to Izou, and even easier still to close and lock the apartment door behind him when he'd finally made it home. He breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he was alone again, feeling completely drained as if he'd been gone for days instead of the mere hours.

The optimism he'd left the apartment with was completely gone, replaced with the desire to lie down and hide for a while longer. Another childish instinct he didn't care about having at the moment.

It was his damn right to be miserable and alone, and to hurt in peace without subjecting himself to everyone else’s sympathies. He hadn’t died, but he might as well have with how he’d been acting. With how everyone looked at him, grieving for who he’d been and, perhaps, who he’d never be again.

The fact he was being dramatic wasn’t lost on him, but he couldn’t help it. More and more he’d felt that maybe a part of him was dead and to be buried and grieved and let go, but the wound still too fresh to actually accept it.

He wasn’t optimistic anymore, so suddenly and without reason, but he was far from accepting and that was hard to explain to someone who insisted he could still be okay. The doctor’s optimistic words were replaying in his mind, over and over again until they stopped sounding genuinely optimistic and turned into a nicety he was told just to have the motivation to recover properly.

To him, recovering properly meant dancing again, but he knew the doctor didn’t share that opinion. Letting the muscles heal and continue life without any pain, being able to walk without issue; those were important to the medical staff taking care of him. As if that could be enough after everything he’d had, all the hard work he’d invested into a lifetime dream that he’d turned into a breathtaking reality only to watch it become unattainable yet again.

It was his right to be miserable and to grieve, and Marco knew it well.

-0-

At first, there was nothing but the darkness around him, kept at bay by the circle of bright light at the centre of which he stood. It was a heavy darkness, brimming with anticipation and awe, hiding countless eyes trained on him alone. They were hidden, but he felt every gaze on his skin. The music was just an afterthought, a barely remembered memory at the edge of his mind, reaching his ears distorted through the darkness like it's treading water just to get to him.

He moved at what he knew was his cue, the tips of his toes bearing his weight for a moment, suspended in the spotlight, surrounded by the weight of a bated breath before the music crashed and the weight was lifted.

With a feather-light grace, he leapt into the air, smug at the sound of a collective gasp from the darkness. He soared across the stage, light, free, weighted by nothing of consequence. He mattered here, on this stage, in front of all those eyes. He was something, someone worthy of awe, worthy of worship.

He couldn’t get enough of it, of the worship and amazement directed at him. But the circle of his spotlight diminished, becoming smaller and leaving him with less and less space to move, causing a tightness in his chest. He moved nonetheless, not allowing the darkness to subdue him, but his movements lost their grace, as if he was a beginner again.

The music grew more distorted with every move he made, with every breath he tried to take on that stage. He recognized very little of his surroundings and the music, his skin suddenly too tight, itching for something he couldn’t recognize. He'd never been claustrophobic, never afraid of the dark, and yet here he was, wondering if he should have been. His inability to breathe was turning his limbs into lead, punishing him for the lack of focus.

Moving became difficult, but he tried, he persisted because he would not, could not give up and fall to his knees.

The darkness was unrelenting though, growing heavier as it closed in on him. It continued to consume quickly, taking with it the rest of his spotlight.

The loss of it was choking him, as if the air was disappearing along with the light and he couldn’t breathe from the loss of it. The stage fell out from underneath his feet and he fell with a jolt, shocked to the core and unable to fight it.

He was falling, unbelievably quickly, helpless in every possible way as the light above him faded and disappeared, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the unavoidable end that waited for him.

There was nothing to hold on to, nothing that could stop his descent. There were only whispers he could barely make out, hiding in the dark, mocking him as they replaced the awe he’d been reveling in earlier.

Words mingling together, highlighting the very worst of his life and recreating a bigger picture he couldn’t look at. The hopelessness was clinging to him like a weight, wrapped around his ankles, pulling him down faster and faster and making his chest hurt with the inability to draw breath. The darkness was all consuming, filling his mouth like water, choking him with each desperate gulp.

Marco woke with gasp, out of breath as if he'd been drowning only moments ago, gulping for air with a lot of effort. The sheets around him were soaked with his cold sweat, uncomfortably sticking to him while he tried his best to remember his dream.

The more he focused on it, the faster the images disappeared, leaving him frustrated and annoyed. His routine had extended to a reoccurring dream he could never remember, and yet it haunted him, waking him covered in sweat each morning with no regard to how much rest he'd gotten.

Usually, it was less than he'd liked, but he'd been unable to find a way to fix it.

The heating was off again, and while he'd known it was his own doing, Marco couldn't help the annoyance at how cold he was. How cold he was every morning without fail, making the post nightmare panic even worse. The air was cold enough to hurt with each inhale, forcing him to get up and turn the heating on before heading into the shower.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror on the way and fought off the urge to flinch for a moment. The stubble kind of suited him, but it was first and foremost a reminder on how he'd been slacking on the routine he'd cared so much for.

The only parts of it that remained unchanged were the bad ones, the nightmares and the cold, waking up in a cold sweat with the unrelenting feeling that warmth didn't exist.

Marco hated it a lot for a nightmare he couldn't even remember once he'd woken up.

He followed the usual steps of his post nightmare annoyance; turning on the heat, freezing on the way to the bathroom, showering. Being warm again. Past that, things were harder to do.

He hadn't shaved in days. The exercises for his knee became something he'd done sporadically, instead of every morning and every evening like he was supposed to. All the hope those used to invoke was hard to come by after his visit to the Theatre. Incredible, how that visit turned out as monumental as he'd expected, for a completely unexpected reason.

Acutely aware of the empty space on the wall, Marco dressed for the day, resolutely not thinking about the frame he'd taken down after he'd returned home days ago, chest still tight with the feeling of being replaced. The empty space was probably as damning as seeing the poster was, but Marco ignored that for the time being.

Ignored it just like he'd been ignoring his phone again, despite what Izou told him, once again overwhelmed with the need to stay alone for a while longer. Knowing about his replacement just opened more opportunities for being pitied and he was never ready for that. It may have been the worst side of it all, the way no one seemed to believe he could overcome this and recover.

Did he actually believe he could recover? There was nothing he could claim for sure anymore, but being observed as something broken hurt nonetheless. It was a lot to cope with, after years of admiration and being observed with awe in affirmation of his hard work and skill.

The ringing of his phone broke him out of his reverie, but there was no intention to actually pick up still. With every missed call, Marco had less will to answer. Not to mention that it became harder and harder the longer he ignored it. Surely, the phone calls would simply stop at one point if he continued like this.

That thought alone had almost been enough to make him change his mind, but the ringing stopped and he was surrounded by silence again.

In that moment, just standing in his bedroom surrounded by an almost oppressive silence, Marco felt more tired than he'd ever been. The nightmares, the pain, and staying despondent just made him perpetually weary. Getting little to no sleep on top of that was just making it all worse, keeping him in an endlessly bad mood.

With some amusement, Marco thought it was probably for the best he hadn't answered the phone in so long.

He'd already gotten used to the occasional ringing of his phone, always loud, but never lasting longer than a couple of rings before the person on the other end would give up. He hadn't had a chance to get used to the banging on his front door though, because that hadn't happened yet. For a moment, Marco had no idea what to do. Usually, the only people at his door were there for food delivery and he tended to know exactly when someone would be coming by.

Silently, he walked over into the living room, staring at the front door while the person on the other side did their best to be as loud as possible.

"Marco, it's me," Izou said a moment later before knocking again.

Hearing that it was Izou didn't really make Marco want to open the door any more than before, so he didn't move from his spot, feeling like an absolute tool for pretending he wasn't in. Izou knew very damn well that Marco didn't leave the apartment pretty much at all these days.

"I know you're in there," Izou said, completely exasperated. Marco couldn't blame him. He could rarely blame Izou for anything.

The banging stopped, and Marco still hadn't moved from his spot because he didn't really want to see Izou and have him make sense like Izou tended to. He wasn't ready for someone to talk sense at him, not when he wanted to be alone and wallow in his misery.

“Don’t think I’m going to give up so easily,” Izou said, almost like a threat, before Marco could hear him walk away from the door.

He wasn't ready for empty platitudes either, and he knew well that Izou would try to stay positive. There was nothing positive about this though, Marco was sure there was no going back on stage if the other option was Ace dancing in his stead.

He'd been weak. He may not have listened to Izou about answering his phone, but he'd listened about looking up Ace and, even days later, Marco couldn't come to terms with how he felt about it.

His opinion of Ace had always been complicated, given everything, but never once had he doubted Ace's skill and talent when it came to dance. When Ace had announced he would be quitting those few years ago, Marco couldn't comprehend how he'd even come to such a decision after all the years invested in perfecting his craft. (He should have understood, but regretting his reaction to the news so long after it had happened was beyond pointless.)

But it wasn't a shock that he'd decided to return. Marco knew, perhaps better than anyone, how much being on stage meant to Ace. They had always been so similar in that regard, and it had probably been what drew them to each other; the love for dance and the numerous sacrifices made along the way just to get to a point where the dream was a reality.

So in itself, that part of the news wasn't hard to swallow, especially since it was obvious after seeing him mid practice. Ace belonged on stage more than most people after all.

There had been no articles about him though, no big announcement that he'd be returning. At least not that Marco found after searching Ace's name.

The first page search results was full of links to YouTube, all showcasing a thumbnail of Ace's achingly familiar form. He couldn’t help the smile when it became apparent what this was, just a music video of Ace dancing in an empty room, but it fit Ace so well to announce his comeback like that.

Marco opened the first video and watched Ace dance, as if seeing him for the first time, his chest tight with an array of emotions he didn't dare contemplate for a moment longer than necessary. And once the video finished, Marco played it yet again, and again, and again, until it hurt to watch, until he knew the choreography by heart.

Until the sight of Ace's face made him sad and angry and happy all at once, because he could recognize how perfect Ace was to take his place and he hated it with a passion.

He hated the fact he needed to be replaced, but he didn’t hate Ace. He hated that Ace was back and he didn’t know about it, and he hated that this was his own fault for ignoring Thatch’s calls. He hated himself for being in this helpless situation because of stupid decisions he’d made in the past, thinking they’d never catch up to him.

He hated so much, but he hated himself the most.

Days later and just the thought of watching that video again made him want to shout and throw things, and yet he ached to watch it again and dwell on it all. He wanted to fall into a pit of all the videos of Ace dancing through his career just to hurt some more, because it didn’t feel like this was enough just yet and Marco was fully expecting more things to go wrong.

He had nothing left to lose anymore, but it felt right that he’d lose something more.

-0-

At first, there was nothing but the darkness around him, kept at bay by the circle of bright light at the centre of which he stood. It was a heavy darkness, brimming with anticipation and awe, hiding countless eyes trained on him alone. They were hidden, but he felt every gaze on his skin. The music was just an afterthought, a barely remembered memory at the edge of his mind, reaching his ears distorted through the darkness like it's treading water just to get to him.

He wasn’t alone in the spotlight, and that frightened him, not used to sharing this moment.

His cue played, but he couldn’t move, limbs too heavy to follow the choreography he could dance in his sleep. Panicked, he turned towards the person next to him, incomprehension on his tongue and ready to spill out, to ask for an explanation.

The words died out before they were spoken once he’d seen the man in his spotlight, dancing his dance, moving to his cue without regard to Marco’s presence.

With a feather-light grace, he leapt into the air, smug at the sound of a collective gasp from the darkness. (The gasp should have been for Marco.) He soared across the stage, light, free, weighted by nothing of consequence. He mattered here, on this stage, in front of all those eyes. (Marco should have mattered.) He was something, someone worthy of awe, worthy of worship.

Marco ached just from looking at him.

The power of all that worship was closing in on Marco with the darkness. As the pain grew, the circle of his spotlight diminished, becoming smaller around him and only growing around the man that should have been him. He still couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out at the injustice of it.

The music changed, from the joy filled memory to a screech of pain he couldn’t protect his ears from. It forced its way into every crack and splinter caused by the misery, burning him from the inside until he was made of nothing but sorrow.

He was brought to his knees with such ease, denied his place in the spotlight, forced to watch someone else live out his dream.

The darkness was unrelenting, growing heavier as it closed in on him and continued to consume him with unbelievable ease, taking with it the last shred of his spotlight.

The loss choked him, as if the air was disappearing along with the light and he couldn’t breathe from it. The stage fell out from beneath him and he was too stunned to fight it.

He was falling, unbelievably quickly, helpless in every possible way as the light above him shone on a figure that should have been him. The light didn’t reach him at all, but it remained clear and beautiful in the distance where it didn’t belong to him anymore.

He was weighed down by so much, dragged down as if he were nothing but dead weight. It felt wrong, but he couldn't reason with himself why that was. The overwhelming feeling of wrongness was just another weight that pulled him down until the fall was unavoidable. He was afraid still, but an end seemed almost welcome.

Voices followed him down the abyss, ones he knew very well, ones he couldn't recognize, ones he wished he would never have to hear again.

They remained unrelenting, their words mingling together, highlighting the very worst of his life and promising more. Hopelessness was clinging to him like a weight, wrapped around his ankles, the final nail in his coffin that promised a swift and painful end. The darkness was all-consuming, filling his mouth like water, choking him with each desperate gulp until he finally stopped resisting.

The painful lack of air woke him, making him struggle for breath in a panic he couldn't really make sense of in this state. He struggled for breath as if he'd just been pulled out of the ocean after almost drowning.

A familiar sensation at this point, and yet he hadn't gotten used to it. No amount of reasoning that it was just a dream could help the feeling he'd been left with each morning, out of breath and in a panic that was far too real. The dream remained a vague sensation in his memory, just a memory of fear and pain he had no way of dealing with.

Perhaps the reasoning never helped because it was too real, too close to what his waking hours had felt like for a while, but amplified until he couldn't deal with it. There was a limit to his strength, it seemed, and maybe he'd finally reached it.

He got out of bed, cold sweat making his skin prickle, but the apartment felt warmer than usual. A break in the routine that should have been comforting maybe, that he wasn't freezing for once, but it alarmed him instead.

The sounds from the kitchen came before he could questions things too much, but instead of being alarmed, he couldn't help but sigh. Unless there was a burglar that broke into people's homes early in the morning to rifle through their kitchen cabinets, there was only one person Marco knew that could have been there.

Izou had threatened he wouldn't give up and Marco should have heeded the warning instead of just ignoring it because Izou tended to go through with his threats, not matter how big or small.

Marco knew he could have stayed in his room, ignoring Izou's presence like he'd been ignoring everything until that point. But that didn't seem right, going to such lengths to be childish. The fact that his shirt was completely soaked through and growing colder by the second also helped influence his decision to leave his room and face whatever was out there.

He really needed a shower as well, and he couldn't get that if he hid in his room.

"How are you still alive?" Izou asked loudly from the kitchen as soon as his bedroom door opened. "There's basically nothing in your fridge."

Marco sighed, walking over to the kitchen instead of just heading for the bathroom like he'd done each morning.

"I ate everything," he said with a shrug, "and I didn't get anything new yet."

"How do you get anything if you leave the apartment as much as I think you do?" Izou asked, turning towards Marco and still judging silently. “And what is with that facial hair?” he asked as soon as his eyes landed on the scruff that was slowly turning into a full beard Marco couldn’t be bothered to shave off.

Marco could see the bags of groceries all over the counters though, noting the obvious concern Izou came over with and decided to ignore the beard comment. He hadn’t developed any strong feelings about it yet, and there was really no way to explain it without mentioning he just simply didn’t give a fuck anymore.

"You can have pretty much anything delivered these days, you know," he said, managing a smile, almost feeling like himself, but not really.

"Don't sass me," Izou said, looking ready to throw something at Marco, but refraining from actually doing it.

Marco knew he would have thrown that cabbage at his head before without a second thought, and the fact he hadn't spoke volumes.

"Go shower, I can smell you all the way here," Izou added a moment later, looking as if he'd been considering the same thing as Marco and wasn’t happy about it.

"And grab some clothes!" he shouted while Marco left the kitchen without a word, thoughts focused on how painfully obviously things have changed. "I didn't come here to look at your naked ass."

It wouldn’t be the first time, or most likely the last, but it felt wrong just to consider it this time.

-0-

Izou's presence in the apartment could be felt even through the curtain of water Marco tried to put between them. As much as he cared for Izou, his being there threw Marco off balance more than a nightmare could. An unusual feeling to have about someone Marco considered family, but this was beyond his control no matter how guilty it made him feel.

He's worried, Marco tried to remind himself, he's here because you've been ignoring him for weeks.

No matter that the thought appeared without warning, Marco couldn't argue with it. He had been ignoring everyone for weeks, and of course it would have been Izou that would snap and finally use the spare key he'd had for Marco's apartment. For emergencies, they'd agreed.

This could have counted as an emergency maybe, but Marco just wanted to be left alone for a while longer. He was far from good company in the state he'd been since the hospital, and he hadn't wanted to inflict it upon anyone.

Pretending that had been the only reason was easier than admitting he was scared at this point, scared of facing them again after such a long time of avoiding everything.

His attempt to visit the Theatre was admirable to a point, but ultimately it just served to give him more reason to withdraw into himself yet again.

Izou, clearly, had had enough. Marco was impressed he had been getting away with it for this long honestly. Impressed, but still guilty.

He finished up in the shower faster than he was used to, not wanting to make Izou wait longer since he was already there. Marco had been an asshole for a while, but that didn't mean he'd had to continue it if he could help it.

"So you didn't start answering your phone," Izou said the moment Marco walked back into the kitchen. He didn't even bother posing it as a question.

"Do you ever wait for me to actually be in the room to have a conversation?" Marco asked.

It was kind of amusing how Izou always knew whenever he was in earshot.

"No," he replied without turning around. "Stop deflecting, we're talking about this. I won't force you to tell me anything you don't want, but I think you owe me at least some kind of explanation."

"Explanation on what?" Marco asked, feeling too awkward in his skin, and in his own home, not used to having someone else in his space anymore.

"Anything," Izou said. "Why you're avoiding us, what you're thinking, why do you have a single cupboard dedicated to nothing but different kinds of oats," Izou listed before turning around.

"I'd settle on anything at this point honestly," he finished, looking more frustrated than Marco had seen him in a while.

Marco stood there awkwardly, staring at Izou while he turned back around towards the stove.

"I like oatmeal," he finally said, after a silence that lasted too long even to him, despite being used to nothing but silence lately.

"Yeah, I fucking figured," Izou said with a short 'no shit' glance over his shoulder. "Come on, we're eating on the couch," he added and Marco watched him grab one bowl, then place another in the crook of his elbow then grab a third smaller bowl with his other hand.

Marco let him pass first before following after him without a word, waiting for another question or anything Izou could offer to lessen the awkwardness.

"What the fuck is that?" he asked instead once he caught sight of the contents of the small bowl.

He'd been expecting fruit or something, not whatever that was.

"Food," Izou said, clearly not bothering to explain anything, but Marco knew he sure as hell wouldn't be eating that.

"I'm not eating that," he said as much.

"It's not for you," Izou replied while he set down their bowls on the coffee table.

"I'm not watching you eat that in my house," Marco said, not even bothering hiding his disgust.

"It's not for me either, you tool," Izou told him with a roll of his eyes. "It's for her," he said, nodding towards the front door and the small box (crate? he wasn't sure) that was placed there.

Izou started towards it, shaking the bowl a bit so it made a loud sound and the reaction was immediate.

The meow was undeniable.

"What the fuck," Marco said, narrowing his eyes and trying to catch sight of whatever that was.

Well, a cat. It was obviously a cat, and he was an idiot.

"Her name is Precious," Izou said like he brought cats to Marco's apartment every day, "and she's a Russian Blue."

"A Russian Blue what?"

There was no describing the look on Izou's face.

"A Russian Blue cat," he said like it was obvious, and yes, maybe it was.

"When did you get a cat?" Marco asked like he hadn't spent weeks and weeks avoiding Izou and, as a result, knowing very little of what was new with him.

"Picked her up this morning," Izou said, turning back to the cat carrier (cause that's what it obviously was) and setting the bowl down in front of it.

"Why bring her here then? Shouldn't she be getting used to your place?" he asked, growing more curious of the cat while the shock faded away.

"I swear, being a hermit made you dumb," Izou said, exasperated, but not turning around.

Instead he opened the little door on the carrier and stepped away.

"Fuck you," Marco said simply, feeling like he was missing something monumental. "And that doesn't answer my question."

"She's for you, dumbass," Izou told him, not even bothering hiding how stupid he thought Marco was being.

Technically, he wasn't even wrong because Marco hadn't even realized until then that the bowl Izou set down for Precious wasn't even Marco's. It had tiny purple paws all over it and was clearly meant for a fucking cat.

Too focused on this bit of information, Marco barely registered that Izou had been talking to him like nothing was wrong, like nothing had happened and, at least until he realized it, it made Marco feel normal. Like they were just hanging out like usual. But once he'd became aware of it, the moment was gone, he felt guilty again and there was a cat in his apartment.

"I don't need a cat," he said, even though that was an absurd statement; everyone needed a cat.

"You need company," Izou said, sobering as well and already gone back to that vaguely cautious tone he'd been using with Marco. "And if you're gonna be ignoring us, you may as well have someone else with you."

In all honesty, it wasn't the dumbest idea Marco had heard. From Izou especially.

"Come on," Izou said then, turning away from the door. "We should eat while the oatmeal is still warm and maybe she'll come out of the carrier in the meantime."

"I don't even have any cat stuff," Marco said as he joined Izou on the couch. It was a weak excuse and they both knew it.

"I got everything you'll need for now," Izou told him, handing over a bowl. "By the way, you really do have an alarming amount of oats."

"Maybe so," Marco said and shoved a spoonful into his mouth, because eating was a perfect excuse not to talk. Izou would never forgive him for talking with his mouth full.

But Izou had been right; he was owed an explanation or at least something after being left in the dark. The problem was finding a way to vocalize any part of what he'd been feeling without an irrational child.

"I can't stand the pity," he said in the silence that had settled over them as they ate. "From any of you."

His words rang out through the living room, despite how quietly he’d spoken, and it felt like a mistake almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

Izou opened his mouth to say something, probably to deny it, but Marco cut him off. He doubted he’d be able to say any more if Izou had a chance to comment.

"I know you probably don't do it on purpose," he said without looking away from his bowl.

There was no conceivable way he'd be able to say what little he could say if he looked at Izou's face and saw whatever expression was there. Whether it be pity or anything else, Marco doubted he could stand it at the moment.

"It's kind of obvious though," Marco continued, fingers fidgeting with the spoon in an attempt to do something with his hands. "It's easier to stay here and avoid everything while I can."

That was more honesty than he'd been ready for, more than he thought he could share, and yet at the same time it was virtually nothing. He couldn't expect Izou to understand anything with what little he actually shared, but the thought of saying more made his skin crawl. The thought of admitting out loud that he doubted in his own recovery at times would have been too much, and a weight too heavy to place on Izou just because he was unfortunate enough to be there.

"I'm sorry," Izou said, sounding lost for words in an unexpected way.

Marco couldn't tell what exactly he was apologizing for, but he had no desire to ask. Asking would mean getting an answer, and the chances of him liking that answer were very slim. He preferred not knowing for the time being, at least when it was about this.

"So why Precious?" Marco asked to change the subject, and mercifully, Izou allowed it this time.

"Because she's grumpy and doesn't like other cats," Izou said and Marco took a look at him then, just to confirm that he was amused. It was a good look on him, and one Marco was much happier to see than the pity and sadness.  "Obviously reminded me of you," he added with a smirk.

There was obviously something there, in his eyes and it the tightness of his smile, but Marco didn't draw attention to it. Talking about a cat was much safer, less painful and less likely to make him want to hide in his room until he was alone again. Like a damn child.

"Why name her Precious then?" he asked, looking over to the carrier and still seeing no sign of an actual cat.

A single meow and Izou's word were the only things he had to go by. The cat could have been a lie for all he knew.

"I didn't," Izou told him, following his gaze towards the carrier. "Her previous owners named her and the shelter didn't change it."

Marco could tell he wouldn't be changing it either, warming up to the idea of a cat faster than he'd initially expected.

"You're not going to either, are you?" Izou asked, but it didn't sound like much of a question. "You're gonna turn it into a Lord of the Rings reference. You're such a nerd."

Once again, Izou wasn't really wrong, but this time Marco hadn't even thought of that quite yet. He objected to being called a nerd just a bit, but not out loud; that tended to only entice Izou to call him a nerd some more.

"So your plan was to bring me a random cat, expecting that I'd just be okay with it, and then what?" he asked, deciding to not even grace the Lord of the Rings statement with a reply.

"And then you're not going crazy all alone in your apartment while you do whatever it is you do here all day," Izou said with a shrug. "You don't really sound opposed to a having a cat to me, and now you can't use the old excuse about being away too much."

Marco generally hated when Izou was right, because he tended to make sense very often and that generally tended to work against Marco. It was a sight to behold when directed at someone else, but less of a joy when it was about him.

This time, it wasn't that hard to give in; Izou absolutely made sense, and realistically, Marco had always wanted a pet. He hadn't even had to do anything to get one because Izou did all the work. It was incredibly thoughtful, and all the more reason to feel guilty about hiding away while the rest of them worried.

"I think it'll be good for you," Izou said, placing a hand on his shoulder so lightly, that Marco felt all the more fragile for it. "The guy at the shelter said she likes being talked to, so at least you won't forget what it's like to talk to people, and we'll wait until you come around."

Then he stood from the couch and made for the door, in the typical Izou fashion where he had to have the last word and he didn't leave any room for Marco to say anything else on the matter. Yet another infuriating thing Izou did that was amusing to watch when it happened to other people.

"I have to go to the Theatre now, so I'll let you get to know your new roommate," he said as he put on his coat, then peered into the carrier. "By the way, she's not in there anymore so you'll have to find her in the apartment somewhere. Have fun with that, she's very good at hide and seek."

"You're an asshole," Marco said, less annoyed than he should have been. "You can tell them you were here, if you want," he added as an afterthought, when Izou's hand was already on the doorknob and he was almost gone.

Marco couldn't decide if he'd been hoping Izou wouldn't hear him or not.

"I will," Izou said, opening the door, but still turning to look at Marco. "Answer your phone soon."

He stayed only long enough to see Marco nod; an affirmation, but not a promise they both knew he wouldn't be able to keep.

-0-

The thing was, Marco had always wanted to have a pet. That, however, didn't mean he'd ever had one or that he knew what the hell he was doing with a cat.

For roughly two hours after Izou had left, Marco was doubting the cat's existence due to the fact he wasn't able to find her anywhere in the apartment. First, he had panicked that she slipped out while Izou was leaving and somehow neither of them noticed.

Then he'd realized that Izou would have probably noticed a cat in the hallway while he was doing downstairs, so the panic subsided, and was replaced with a doubt. He hadn't even seen her, all he had to go by was one single meow and Izou's word. While Izou wasn't prone to lying for no good reason, he was prone to pulling pranks when Marco least expected them and this had the makings of a prank all over it.

Then, some time into his worrying and doubting and worrying and doubting, he heard some shuffling somewhere in the apartment that at least confirmed he wasn't alone. Just like Izou had wanted.

Still, he had no idea where she was or what to do. He had no idea what she looked like either.

For lack of a better idea, Marco pulled out his phone from where he'd hidden it in a rarely opened kitchen drawer, and closed all notifications for missed calls and unopened messages. Maybe he'd check them at some point, but not yet.

The internet seemed to agree that he should set out some food and water, leave the doors in the apartment open and wait her out.

Which sounded fairly simple in theory really, but it also sounded like it would require a lot of patience. Patience he didn't really have, but well, he wasn't ready to force Precious to come out of hiding just because he was curious. She was hiding much like he'd been doing for a while and there was no way he could judge her for it.

She was alone in a strange place with a person she never met before (that had to have been a poor decision on Izou's side, but Marco didn't actually know enough about cats to call him out on it) so hiding and getting to know the place on her own terms must have been a comfort for her. Fighting the urge to go looking for her, Marco settled into the couch with his phone and continued searching for information about owning a cat.

All in all, he'd learned that cats were mostly low maintenance, which was good he thought. He'd rifled through the bags of groceries and cat stuff Izou had brought, briefly wondering how many trips it had taken to bring all of that into the apartment without waking Marco up.

Searching for info turned into watching cat videos on YouTube for almost two hours before his recommendation section showed the thumbnail of Ace's video, and Marco came to the realization that he'd been preoccupied to be miserable and in pain.

Of course, as soon as he'd realized that, the complicated feeling of hopefulness and hopelessness returned tenfold just to point out he'd had a peaceful couple of hours for the first time in a while and it was all gone in a flash over something as stupid as a video thumbnail. (He knew it was worse than a simple thumbnail, but he could at least pretend.)

He'd hoped Precious would turn up just when he needed her, to chase away the feeling again and make him feel lighter than he'd been in a while, but there was no sign of her still and all he'd been left with was a burning disappointment. Disappointment in himself mostly, not a poor cat he hadn't even seen yet.

Maybe he'd been putting too many expectations on an animal, but that was neither here nor there because he had to put his hopes (no matter how few he had) on someone else. He did trust a cat with them more than himself, and that probably proved Izou's point very well. Yet another thing Marco hated about Izou always being right.

-0-

At first, there was nothing but the darkness around him, kept at bay by the circle of bright light at the centre of which he stood. It was a heavy darkness, brimming with anticipation and awe, hiding countless eyes trained on him alone. They were hidden, but he felt every gaze on his skin. The music was just an afterthought, a barely remembered memory at the edge of his mind, reaching his ears distorted through the darkness like it's treading water just to get to him.

He wasn’t alone in the spotlight, and he hated it, not used to sharing his moment.

His cue played, over and over again, but his efforts to move and dance out his choreography failed. Panicked, he turned towards the person next to him, sure that somehow this was his fault, somehow he’d made it impossible for Marco to move.

All words of anger he wanted to say died out before they were spoken once he’d seen the man in his spotlight, dancing his dance, moving to his cue without regard to Marco’s presence. There was a vicious look to him, something malicious and mocking and it hurt to look at.

With a feather-light grace, he leapt into the air, smug at the sound of a collective gasp from the darkness. (Marco deserved this, not him.) He soared across the stage, light, free, weighted by nothing of consequence. He mattered here, on this stage, in front of all those eyes. (This was Marco’s place, Marco’s light, he should have mattered more.) He was something, someone worthy of awe, worthy of worship.

Marco burned with rage just looking at him.

The power of all that worship directed away from Marco was stifling, suffocating while it closed in on him with the darkness. As his anger burned more and more, the circle of his spotlight diminished, becoming smaller around him and only growing around the man that should have been him. He still couldn’t move, couldn’t shout at the injustice of it.

The music changed, from the joy-filled memory to a white-hot wrath he couldn’t protect his ears from. It forced its way into every crack and splinter caused by the pain he’d been feeling, burning him from the inside until he was made of nothing but fire.

He was brought to his knees with such ease, denied his place in the spotlight, forced to watch someone else live out his dream while he was consumed by anger.

The darkness was unrelenting, growing heavier as it closed in on him and continued to consume him with unbelievable ease, taking with it the last shred of his spotlight.

The loss choked him, as if the air was disappearing along with the light and he couldn’t breathe from it, from the bile rising in his throat. The stage fell out from beneath him and he was enraged at the fact he couldn’t fight for what was his.

He was falling, unbelievably quickly, helpless in every possible way as the light above him shone on a figure that should have been him. The light didn’t reach him at all, but it remained clear and beautiful in the distance where it didn’t belong to him anymore.

He was weighed down by so much, dragged down as if he were nothing but dead weight. It felt wrong, so wrong because the spotlight was stolen from him. The overwhelming feeling of wrongness was just another weight that pulled him down until the fall was unavoidable. He was not afraid, yearning to destroy whoever took this from him.

Voices followed him down the abyss, ones he knew very well, ones he couldn't recognize, ones he wished he would never have to hear again. One voice that was destroying him from the inside out.

They remained unrelenting, their words mingling together, highlighting the very worst of his life and promising more. Rage was clinging to him like a weight, wrapped around his ankles, the final nail in his coffin that promised a swift and painful end.

He woke quickly for once, just a jerk of his body and he was awake in a flash, wrapped in confusion that came with every one of these dreams. He couldn’t tell if this one was any different than the countless ones that came before, but he could tell that it didn’t matter. There was much he still needed to do, to work out and come to terms with, but that felt like something he may achieve in the future, when the pain wasn’t so bad.

Letting go just didn’t seem like something he could manage just yet.

Marco heaved a sigh, his chest tight as if he’d forgotten how to breathe somewhere along the way and had to remind himself over and over again. For once he wasn’t bathed in sweat, finally allowed to actually enjoy the comfort of his bed without having to drag himself out in search for warmth.

He had no idea what to do with that. It’d been so long and he was afraid to move for fear of ruining it somehow.

The silence was broken by a rumbling sound, like a small engine puttering somewhere nearby, and for a moment he was stumped. Confused again in the early morning, but it was different this time, and it didn’t take him too long to figure it out. Precious was perched precariously at the foot of his bed, purring away as she stared him down.

She was absolutely beautiful and Marco was a tiny bit in love already. She purred and she stared, but made no move to approach him. Based on what he’d read during his research into cat behavior on the internet, she’d probably sniffed him and the apartment during the night while he slept. She seemed curious, but not really at ease, and Marco hoped that would change soon.

Marco pulled himself from bed carefully, trying his best not to startle her, happy to be leaving bed for a reason that had nothing to do with his nightmare for once. Feeding her seemed like a pretty good reason to get up anyway. Maybe he hadn’t been wrong to expect so much from a cat; she hadn’t even done anything yet and he was already distracted from his misery, and the lack of good sleep he’d had in a while.

She hadn’t moved from the bed to follow him while he turned the heating on and refilled her food bowl (the water looked untouched and Marco wondered if that was worrying), and he didn’t bother her for now, sure she would find the food when she was ready for it. But he was at a loss, unsure how to continue his morning when the last bits of his routine, even if it was a bad routine, were coming undone.

It meant something that he finally felt okay for once. Not good, not yet, but not absolutely miserable either, and Marco didn’t want to take that feeling for granted. Before he could talk himself out of it, he lowered himself to the living room floor and started with his stretches, feeling sore almost immediately.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he did any exercises, and it was apparently instantly how bad of an idea that was.

Precious emerged from his room soon after he’d gotten on the floor, eyes trained on his with keen interest while she made her way to the bowl he set out for her. She never took her eyes off him, not even while eating, and it was maybe a bit funny how obviously distrustful she was. He didn’t blame her one bit though, and continued through his exercises much slower than he used to.

Once again, he’d managed to screw himself amazingly well apparently, and the realization did dim his renewed sense of optimism.

Maybe it was just denial, a misguided belief that he could actually get better, and there were better ways to spend his time instead of sitting on the fucking floor doing some exercises his therapist showed him. He did continue, too pissed at himself to actually stop after he’d actually begun, but the determination was slowly growing weaker and weaker.

He was mad about it too, unable to stop that, and too tired to even bother.

Perhaps he was once again putting too much on a single cat, but Precious had appeared then, materializing out of nowhere (or just moving silently like cats did) to sniff at the hem of his sweatpants, curious enough to get within touching distance. Marco was immediately distracted, focus entirely on her as he remained completely still while she snipped along his sweats. His knee twinged a little, being stuck in a position it shouldn’t have been for too long, but he let that be just a moment longer, until she stopped sniffing him and walked away.

The relief was instant as he relaxed into the floor, but his drive was pretty non-existent and instead of doing more, Marco stood with some difficulty and found himself at a loss for what to do yet again. Breakfast, maybe. Izou had been right, there was a truly alarming amount of oats and random grains in his cupboard. In all honesty, he wasn’t actually aware when he’d managed to accumulate all of those or why, but at least it wasn’t likely he’d starve for a long while.

His phone was left on top of the kitchen island, both unassuming and an eyesore at the same time, drawing his attention for maybe the first time in weeks. He’d been avoiding it like the plague for fear it may ring again and he’d actually be tempted to answer, but after talking to Izou a whole two times in the span of a week or so, it felt somehow less frightening.

Without giving it too much thought, and momentarily forgetting about breakfast, Marco opened his unread messages and braced himself.

-0-

At first, there was nothing but the darkness around him.

  



End file.
